Reflections in the Moonlight
by SilverKnight
Summary: An all you can eat drabblerama. Get it while it's hot, folks. -BB, JLU, etc.- IX: All Damien wants is Bruce's approval - and his mantle. All Terry wants is for Damien to shut up.
1. Introduction

**Reflections in the Moonlight  
**By SilverKnight 

_Disclaimer_: Hoo-boy. Batman, Batman Beyond, Justice League, and Teen Titans are property of Warner Brothers. I write this for my own enjoyment, and intend no infrigement or profit.

_Summary_: An all-you-can-eat drabble-rama. Get it while it's hot, people.

As already stated, these are a series of drabbles, ficlets, micro one-shots, and other little ideas and scenes that the bunnies refuse to let me be about, from anything relating to DCAU. It's mostly BB-centric, but you may see a few from JL or another show in here; whatever little half-formed idea's running through my head at the moment. Hell, even one or two from TT might pop up. o.O


	2. Moment of Silence

Fandom: _Batman Beyond_

**I. Moment of Silence**

It was bitterly cold.

The middle of April shouldn't have been so frigid out, not even in Gotham, Terry knew. But he said nothing about it, knowing that Bruce would have either ignored him completely or become annoyed at the interruption. He couldn't blame him.

Since when did Bruce ever allow anyone else to join him when he visited Crime Alley?

Bruce, silently, solemnly, and oozing that hard-earned power and dignity, knelt onto the dirt-covered alley and laid the two pristine roses on the sullied, damp ground. Before he realized what had occurred, Terry too had knelt beside the suddenly elderly man and rested a hand on his slumped shoulder as his remaining hand dropped to reverently stroke the soft white petals; knowing somehow that he should have been suffering from a broken jaw instead of staring intently at the duo of roses lying in a small puddle.

The chill that bit into his exposed skin lessened, ever so slightly. Bruce exhaled quietly and bowed his head, either in respect, or shame. A beat passed. Reopening his eyes, the elder Wayne rose to his full height with only minimal aid from his cane as Terry observed in silence. Bruce tilted his head down to meet his gaze after a moment, impassive, then inhaled and offered a hand to his young protege.

Terry, in turn, smiled faintly, and accepted the gesture gratefully. "Thanks."

Bruce nodded curtly. "Likewise."


	3. Forever and a Day

Fandom: _Teen Titans_

**II. Forever and a Day**

Nightwing still hoped.

Everything had gone to hell years ago. _She_ disappeared, the Titans disbanded in misery, his joke of a relationship with--

He shook his head. There was no point dwelling on _that_ fiasco.

Nightwing crouched low, and struck out at nothing, eyes focused behind the mask that had long ago usurped the face beneath it and dominated him. Somewhere, irony chuckled derisively at him, but like many other things that mocked him, he chose to ignore it. The dismal shamble of a life around him couldn't have been his; there had to have been more to it. After all these years, he couldn't let it go. Let _her_ go.

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

Hope was a lousy life-line, he learned early on, but these days, buried in a dark cavern of his own creation, it was all he had. Until forever came and went, and _she_ came back, it was all he _could_ have.


	4. Legacies

Fandom: _Justice League Unlimited_

**III. Legacies**

Batman was both annoyed at and envious of John Stewart.

He could never expect that anyone would take his place after he was gone, either by retirement or death, to Hell with what he saw in the future they'd been thrust into. He kept telling John that he couldn't take anything from that blatantly polluted future with any degree of accuracy; too much had happened, the time stream had been corrupted beyond recognition, it was impossible to tell what should have happened versus what happened as a result of tampering.

But...the envy persisted.

It would never happen to him, he knew with certainty, for he knew with certainty he would be dead come tomorrow. The smart-mouthed youth that had taken up the mantle of the Bat, his older, craggy self giving him pointers on inventive interrogation techniques, the conceit that maybe, just maybe, he would live to see a new day...

No. It was foolish, he understood. He chided John for letting that bastardized future taint his perception of the true future that laid sprawled before them all, still he couldn't help but wonder right before he drifted off into a fitful slumber, beyond the limitations his logic would normally impose upon his mind...

Would he ever have a son to carry on his legacy, like John did?


	5. Infallible

Fandom: _Batman Beyond_

**IV. Infallible**

Batman was supposed to know everything.

Terry sat hunched over in a stiff blue plastic chair, knees on his elbows, nervously clenching his hands into fists. The hustle and bustle of the sterile white corridor only added to the frenzied discord that rattled inside of his big, fat, idiotic head. Stupid! Why did he leave him there? He should've _known_ something was up when Bruce seemed so uncharacteristically distant. But no, he left, thinking that he was fine; he was _always_ fine.

He should've known. Stupid, myopic dreg!

Bruce Wayne couldn't die. He was _Bruce Wayne_; the original Batman, his mentor and, maybe, even friend. He was immortal, untouchable, the cracked obsidian statue atop an endlessly huge pedestal. Bruce Wayne could stare down the Devil himself and send him packing. That was Bruce Wayne, alright; a flawed God among such lesser men, like him.

Why didn't he _pay attention_? Didn't Wayne keep telling him to pay attention? He thought he had been, hadn't he?

He _should've_ known! The signs were obvious! The sluggishness, the glazed over look in his normally blade-sharp blue eyes. How couldn't he have noticed? He was Batman; Batman knew everything, right?

Closing his eyes, Terry pressed the heels of his palms into his temples and clamped his eyes shut in the fruitless hope of holding his inner terror at bay, breathing, "God, please don't let him die."

He now realized, as the doctors tried to mend his hallowed guardian angel's broken wings, that the God among men was as mortal and fragile as he--even more so. How could he have missed it? Why didn't he act sooner?

Batman might have known everything, but while he sat in the hard, cold hospital chair waiting for word that could save or kill him, he didn't know what to do.


	6. Leap of Faith

Fandom: _Batman Beyond_

**V. Leap of Faith**

McGinnis was an idiot. A goddamned idiot.

The monitors blipped monotonously in the otherwise silent and darkened room. Why did McGinnis have to be so stupidly loyal and push him out of the way like that? Bruce almost snorted; he knew exactly why. The boy worshipped the ground he walked on, and it was as plain as day to anyone with more than a total of fifteen braincells. He didn't know better, though he really should have.

It was well known that Bruce Wayne was no saint.

McGinnis was an idiot for trusting him so completely. He didn't realize how often Bruce took advantage of that trust and moronic willingness to help him; even Bruce himself didn't realize sometimes until after the deeds had been done. He didn't want to hurt him; he'd already made those mistakes too many times with too many different people that had done too much for him to deserve his passive treachery and subtle manipulation.

The boy had to know what he was getting into. For his own good. Didn't he realize how dangerous he was to other people? How much pain he brought onto them? McGinnis was Bruce's last chance at maybe getting it right, and here he was, doing it all over again. Using people again. Hurting them again.

He hesitantly reached out with one thin, pale hand and gently, if awkwardly, rested it on Terry's bandaged forehead. The respirator that kept him alive hissed softly, perhaps in defiance. "I'm sorry."

For an instant, he could have sworn he saw the boy's full lips twitch up into the ghost of a smile around the plastic tube inserted down his throat.

Bruce's heart ripped in half. Even near death, he was still blind and trusting, like the wonderfully endearing, frustratingly headstrong idiot he was. Still worshipping him, and God help him, he just couldn't get enough of it. It felt so good to be trusted again, even if he couldn't trust himself.

Maybe tomorrow, he concluded. When the boy was awake and the wounds had healed, he would tell him how misplaced his faith was; how he used him and the others, why they left. Maybe tomorrow...

Maybe Terry would understand?

He absent-mindedly brushed a lock of hair back. He could only hope.


	7. Rest Assured

Fandom: _Batman Beyond_

**VI. Rest Assured**

Matt awoke with a strangled mewl, sucking in ragged breaths. Third nightmare in a week. Were normal kids supposed to have so many bad dreams?

He glanced around warily, eyeing the yawning chasm of darkness between his blue sheets and the faint glimmer of light that poured from beneath his door, and suddenly felt his heart race in terror. Shakily, he rose to his feet and crept into the hallway; scanning the corridor for any of the horrific monsters that might have escaped the confines of his mind. Partially satisfied that there were none, he slipped into the hall on cat's feet, making a beeline for his mother's room out if instinct.

Matt stopped shy when he heard a low groan, muffled by a closed door, coming in the direction of Terry's room. His rich brown eyes wandered to his mother's door momentarily, indecisive, but soon decided that he'd best get out of the hallway lest one of his beasts spring up from the worn carpet and devour him while, and hastily entered his brother's room.

He soon realized that Terry's room was even more frightening than his own, and he contemplated scampering out and leaping into his mother's bed for protection from his nightmares and Terry's combined. But, he was in there, and he wasn't about to tempt fate by braving the hallway again, so he resigned himself on making the best of it. Steadily, he inched his way over, afraid of the darkness and of what Terry might say if he found him in here. Self-conscious and growing angry, he scratched at his arm and halted at the side of the bed as he debated certain humiliation versus certain death. He would probably just get yelled at for being a baby and kicked out anyway. He snorted quietly; the twip _would_ do something like that.

Too quickly, Terry's eyes opened and focused on him. They were squinted and hazed with fatigue and pain, but it made his stare no less unnerving in the all-consuming darkness. "Matt?" he croaked. "What are you doing in here?"

Matt quickly looked away, shrugging and scratching his arm again. "N-nothing," he muttered, unable to keep his stupid fears out of his squeaking little voice. Needing to lay with with someone because of a nightmare, how childish. "Just...y'know, couldn't sleep."

He felt Terry's impassive gaze on him. Then, surprisingly, he felt Terry's hand gingerly encircle his wrist. "Come here, kiddo."

Startled, his head snapped up to witness Terry moving over in his bed, eyes nearly closed, and nodding his head towards the back wall. "Come on."

Matt hesitated for a moment, only to have the searing image of his inhuman predator charging towards him flash in front of his eyes. He all but dove into the sanctuary of the bed, trying to salvage both his pride as a strong eight year old who wasn't afraid of the dark, and his dignity as a McGinnis who didn't need his stupid, non-existent brother's help.

Despite all of this, he felt calmed when Terry's arms wrapped around him protectively, trying to shield him from the shadows around them. And despite feeling like a stupid little twip baby that couldn't even handle a stupid nightmare or twelve, he felt like Terry wouldn't leave him hanging this time, and so he settled into the lumpy mattress and rumpled sheets.

And yet...

"Terry?" he whispered.

A groggy hum was given in way of an answer.

"You _reek_."

Terry chuckled deeply, his shoulders and chest quaking. "Love you too, twip."


	8. The Triple Edged Blade

**Warning:** This contains spoilers for the JLU episode, "Dead Reckoning". If you don't want to know, don't read. Oh, this is also fairly dark. You have been warned. _(Also, brownie-points for anyone who gets the title reference.)_

Fandom: _Batman Beyond_

**VII. The Triple-Edged Blade**

Oh God.

He was a killer.

Wayne was a _killer_.

He shouldn't have found out. A stray bit of soundless footage hidden in the massive logs in the Metro Tower with an amusing name, "JLApes.mpeg," had caught his attention. Bored, as monitor duty tended to do that, he clicked and watched. And then sat horrified as he witnessed Batman--the original, honest-to-God, hardcore no-killing Batman--suddenly dive onto the ground, swipe up a stray hand-gun, and strategically blow away a badly injured villain that had entered the room. He continued to sit horrified as the nameless foe's body jerked back violently from the bullet, slumping to the ground lifelessly.

He was a _killer_.

The old man had _killed_ someone; used a gun and murdered him, quickly and efficiently. Boom, head-shot. Dead.

It hadn't been until GL had commented on his strange behavior at his station that he quickly closed the file and faked that a transmission had come in from Gotham he needed to answer. The boy had gazed at him, disbelieving, but knew that argument would have been ultimately pointless and let him on his way without further trouble.

Now Terry stood at the top of the winding staircase that led down to the Batcave, knotting his hands nervously into fists. What was he supposed to do? He couldn't just ignore it--Wayne had offed some guy, with a _gun_, for God's sake. How was he supposed to broach the subject; how could he even look the man in the face again?

"McGinnis?"

Unsteadily, Terry whirled around to gape at a curiously impassive Wayne staring evenly at him. "I thought you had monitor duty at the Watchtower."

Terry, acting more self-assured than he felt (he was a_ killer_), smiled brazenly. "Nothing eventful was happening, so I ditched to go patrolling."

Wayne's icy blue eyes narrowed minutely. "I see." Nodding, he brushed past him through the entrance. Killer, killer. _Gun-toting murderer_. "Let's get going then."

"Mr. Wayne, did you ever use a gun?"

The elderly man froze in mid-stride, back rigid. A lengthy pause stretched between them, as Terry prayed that maybe he would lie and deny it, despite documented proof, and that maybe, there was an excuse for it. Maybe it had been a clone, or maybe it had been a drug.

Maybe he'd just wanted to see what a little old-fashioned murder was like on the _other_ side of the fence.

A lot of 'maybe's. None of them rang true. He didn't care.

Wayne sighed, tiredly. "Yes," he admitted, his deep baritone tinged with regret. "But never again. Never."

'Never'. Terry couldn't believe it. Wayne--his controlling, awe-inspiring mentor--was a _killer_.

And killers never stopped at just one.


	9. Second Chances

_Disclaimer: All the characters in this story are property of WB and DC Comics. I own nothing, nor am I using this for personal profit. Just fun. :D_

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Fandom: _Batman Beyond/Justice League_

_Prompt: Terry finds himself in the past, and at a crossroads.  
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**VIII: Second Chances**

"Alfred, can you keep a secret?"

The aged butler simply stared at him, eyebrow arched.

Terry sheepishly shrugged, replying, "Yeah, stupid question, huh? Listen, I..." He shifted in the computer chair, so familiar and comfortable, and yet so _foreign_. New. Like everything in here, before time and bitterness and despair chipped away the cavern's strength – its _purpose_ – into a crumbling mausoleum; a tomb for an impossible dream. "I can't tell Bruce this, any of this, because it concerns the future. But..."

He sucked in a breath, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees, glancing momentarily at the high-tech rags his Batsuit had been reduced to. _Shame_ hit him square in the gut. He looked away. "You know him better than anyone, right?"

There went the eyebrow again. "I should certainly hope so, sir."

"Terry." Alfred shot him a look that was just shy of a Bruce-worthy, 'Shut up, you idiot!' simply by virtue of him being...well, _Alfred_. "Look, you're long gone by the time I even begin to enter the picture, so it won't matter if you know my name or not."

Disapproval fairly dripped from the cleaning motions he made on the scalpel in his hand. He was wiping off Bruce's blood. He resisted the shudder. "If you say so, Master Terry."

This time, Terry's brow arched. "Why do you call people 'Master', anyway?"

"An old habit, sir. As well as a sign of respect," he explained in an odd tone, as if no one had ever seen fit to question his mannerisms before. He supposed he should have figured that everyone involved in this family had their specific quirks. As far as they went, being overly respectful was a nice change of pace. "As to your inquiry, I've known Master Bruce his entire life. While I wouldn't dare disclose anything of personal nature with a stranger – " Terry felt a hint of outrage at the dismissive label. " – I'm more than willing to explain anything else."

His shoulders sagged with a weight far beyond his capacity to withstand. "Do you know if Batman – if Bruce – has ever had to withhold information that could save someone's life?" If the question phased the man in front of him, it didn't show. He had to respect that, even begrudgingly. "I mean, I'm from your future, I _know_ things, I've seen things, and I can't stop them."

Alfred frowned and regarded him warily. "Perhaps, given the nature of the situation, you should confer with Master Bruce – "

"I can't," Terry snapped, shoulders tensed. "These things are about him. What leads up to all of this."

Alfred seemed surprised. "But, if I recall correctly, sir, you told Master Bruce that in your present, he was dead."

"But he _wasn't_ when all of this started."

Alfred blinked. Blinked again. Realization dawned slowly in his eyes, and he muttered lowly, "Oh dear."

"Yeah." He sighed, feeling suddenly ancient. His eyes wandered to the ruined Batsuit again, and again, he felt that shame roil angrily under his skin. "It was right before I wound up here. Atlas, he had held up some super-schway, 'Anybody who's anybody' gala. You know the type – lots of wine, lots of clout, and _lots_ of cash."

_The explosion of the far wall startled everyone, but of the entire sixty-or-so odd people of varying shapes and sizes, only Bruce and Terry kept their wits about them. Glancing to each other, they nodded, and Terry made a timely exit._

"Well, I showed up; he put up a fight, and things got ugly, like they always do."

_Atlas was a surprisingly tough and resilient fighter; it was apparent he had some hefty experience under his belt. Given the amount he had stolen in his past robberies, it came as no surprise that he was more than a common thug that simply got lucky._

_Beyond that, it seemed that his past robberies were helping to finance his current one, as he went on the offensive and tossed a live grenade at a group of hapless socialites huddled behind an appetizer table. Batman dove behind it and grabbed the grenade mid-roll, using his momentum to lift himself to his feet and hurl it through a nearby window that shattered into a thousand glinting pieces. He heard the harmless, muted explosion outside of the building as he vaulted over the white-linen surface and took chase; the sound of shrieking women and men little more than background noise to be ignored._

"When he knew that he wasn't going to get away as easily as he did before, he took off. I went after him. And things..."

_He had Atlas cornered in an upper section of the building that was currently being renovated. Wood, drywall, metal, and tarp were laid out bare, exposed to the harsh elements of a smoggy Gotham November evening. He knew the man was hiding behind a partially-built wall, half of its neosteel-framed skeleton jutting out eerily into the darkened room, and moved in for the capture._

"Things...got even uglier."

_In retrospect, he should have known better than to turn a corner on a criminal that he knew was waiting for him._

_The explosive charge itself didn't hit him, but it was near enough for the shockwave to rip him from his feet and send him careening through a wall – fully built, this time; what a waste of building materials – and into a collection of heavily reinforced steel alloy support beams. The combined weight of two-and-a-half tons rested casually on his shoulder-blades, and he blearily glared up with double vision as Atlas' silhouette grew ever closer. The barrel of an MPK-919 assault rifle (standard edition for military arms today, and one of the items lifted from a previous robbery) gleamed dangerously in the minimal light._

"He shouldn't have been there."

"_Careful where you point that thing," warned a dark voice. "You may hurt yourself with it."_

_His mind immediately focused on the familiar baritone, and he began to slowly work his way out from under the wreckage while Bruce kept Atlas distracted. Atlas, for his part, seemed terrified of the disembodied voice; as if it were a long-lost nightmare coming to revisit him. It probably was. "Who is that? Show yourself or the Bat dies!"_

"_I'm_ supposed to be the one risking my neck to save people's lives. _Me_ – no one else."

"_I don't think so."_

_The quiet whistling of the air was the only sound anyone caught before a cane connected with the back of the man's head. Yelping, he dropped his rifle and lurched behind a work-station before other projectiles came flying at him. The wooden cane rattled loudly as it hit the floor. Batman was still was waist deep in a pile of metal when he saw Atlas scurry past him with a handgun, blood oozing down his neck. He reached his arm outward in an attempt to use his grapple to entangle him, but his quarry seemed aware of the plan. A hail of gunfire forced him to twist awkwardly behind a fallen beam with a scowl._

"There was nowhere to hide. I was a sitting duck. And he – "

_Atlas stood high, and with a smirk, held up a small device that looked like a Boomtube. He pressed the button, and Batman was blinded by a column of white light that appeared behind him. The handgun's surface glinted painfully when it was aimed at his skull; a perfect shot._

_His eyes were narrowed to slits, defiant to the end, as Atlas pulled the trigger._

"He – "

_A shadow, amorphous and liquid, solidified in front of him and blocked the muzzle flare._

_The silhouette jerked from the impact, staying frozen in that pose of anguish – that moment just before death – for what felt like an eternity. Batman – Terry – could only stare in blank horror, the echo of gunfire reverberating in every last nerve, as Bruce Wayne shakily fell to his knees and then slumped forward, face first, on the ground. Motionless._

"Bruce, he – he stepped in front of me."

_Lifeless._

"That bastard murdered Bruce Wayne; _I want vengeance_."

Alfred turned from the tray of medical tools, distractedly tossing the bloodied gloves in a nearby wastebin as he closed the distance to the man – boy – in front of him. "Vengeance, sir? Or justice?"

The fire in his eyes went out abruptly.

He buried his head in his hand, an eerily reminiscent gesture. "You know, Mr. Wayne told me something before all of this went down. He told me that everyone has their part to play in history, and that I can't change the outcome of it, no matter how much I may want to." He grit his teeth. "And I can't, because this isn't just about me, or Bruce, or that dreg Atlas and the stuff he steals. This is our entire _reality_ as we know it – I could change _everything_ in an instant if I warn him. I can't."

He rose from the chair in a huff, muscles tightly knotted as he stalked over to the highly polished glass cases; the hollow and stiff pose of the Batman suit offered him no solace. Terry whirled around and seethed, "But I _want_ to. I have a second chance, a way to ensure he isn't gunned down, and I_ can't do it_. He's going to die, and this is gonna be the _second_ time that I didn't do anything to stop it."

Alfred didn't have any words to answer him with. Any placation would have been met with a cynical, angry rebuke that would serve no one. He knew, after all – he had been a part of conversations like these before. Far too many to count. He remained silent, sturdy and faithful, as the teen excised the wound he had been so silently nursing since his arrival.

Terry laughed despairingly, running a hand through his unruly mop of black hair. His voice, as it had been since he began talking, had shifted from the scraping, forced baritone he had been using. It was lighter, younger, filled with so much heartbreak. Alfred pained for him; for he and Bruce both. "I was two feet away from him, Alfred. I was two slagging feet away, and I didn't do anything."

He raised his head to gape at the butler, his stormy blue eyes filled with that same pain, rage, and unyielding need for retribution – for _redemption_. "I could've gotten myself out! I could have – I don't know – thrown a Batarang, tripped the old man, _something_! Why didn't I _do_ something?" His voice was raw, strangled. "There were dozens of peoples' lives in danger before I went after him, and he was content to let me do the work. But when it was just me, by myself, he throws himself in front of a bullet. _Why_? Why didn't he _trust_ me?"

Alfred decided that the boy had expressed himself enough that he could offer what pittance of wisdom he could provide. Crossing over to the younger man, he placed his hands gently on his shoulders, offering comfort – solid contact, something he probably desperately needed. "I suspect it wasn't a matter of trust, sir, as it was a matter of tolerance." He peered into the teen's sterling blue eyes, lost and injured, and felt the most overwhelming sense of deja vu. How many times had he done this, by now? "Master Bruce simply cannot tolerate watching another suffer. His strength of character – his very core – _refuses_ to let another lose their life while he has the chance to save them, even at the cost of his own. Perhaps some may consider it a weakness, but I find it a worthy and noble attribute." He smiled dimly. "It's an attribute I also see in you."

"You've only known me for forty-five minutes," Terry replied meekly.

"Rubbish; that's more than enough time to get a basic understanding of one's character," Alfred supplied, giving him a once-over for emphasis. "I may have only recently met you, but it seems that Master Bruce – _your_ Master Bruce – has known you for quite some time. And if he can trust your judgment, well then, so can I. The question remains, can _you_ trust it?"

His gaze met Alfred's one more time, the energy – the rage – draining from him. In its place was sadness; a sadness, and a terrible, iron-clad knowledge that his duty came at an incredibly high personal cost. "I don't want him to die, Alfred."

Alfred sighed, patting Terry's shoulders in what reassurance he could give. "If there is one thing I have learned in my years here, Master Terry, it's that you should always expect the unexpected. Hope is never lost so long as there is time – and time, I do believe, is something you appear to have a strangely large quantity of, at the moment."

Terry's attention was drawn to Bruce's unmoving form before he heaved a leaden sigh, straightening his posture. He smiled – it was weak, a mere flickering candle to the star it looked capable of being – but it was never the less a start. His eyes were pained, but grateful. "Thank you, Alfred. For everything. I can see why he trusted you."

Reigning his concern in, Alfred corrected his slightly off-place cufflinks and stood primly in front of the youth. "Likewise, sir."

The smile widened, just a bit. For Alfred, that was enough.

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A/N: Four years later, I finally add something to this. If anyone else wants to toss up a prompt of any kind (that isn't your garden variety sappy BM/WW stuff - as much as I love writing it, no) to keep my writing skills sharp, feel free to let me know.


	10. The Heir Apparent

_Disclaimer: All the characters in this story are property of WB and DC Comics. I own nothing, nor am I using this for personal profit. Just fun. :D_

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Fandom: _Batman Beyond (with a hint of Comicverse)_

_Prompt: All Damien wants is Bruce's approval – and his mantle. All Terry wants is for Damien to shut up._

**IX. The Heir Apparent**

"You."

Terry rolled his eyes skyward. Slag it, not this dreg again. "Yes, me. What do you want?"

The thirty-something's footfalls were unnecessarily loud as he stalked down the Batcave stairwell, blue eyes bright with indignant rage. He almost snorted – as if the pompous jerk could do anything _but_. "Where is my father?"

Terry shrugged noncommittally, fingers working over the keyboard with a practiced ease. "Around." He glanced in the elder man's direction, full lips tugging into a devious smirk. "I'm sure you'll find him before I would, you being the master assassin and all."

Damien sniffed in disdain. "I'm here on an important matter. Tell me where he is at once."

"You're not the only one here doing something important," Terry riposted, nodding toward the computer. Sure, he was doing Chem homework when he _said_ he was researching the latest Methlab busts for any apparent patterns – that was kind of the same thing, right? The old man would probably understand. Key word: probably. "So, get in line or find him yourself."

Damien's glare intensified. "Listen here, _boy_, don't seek to delay me, or – "

Terry swiveled the chair around suddenly, elbows planted firmly against the armrests, and head tilted to the side in challenge. "Yeah, or what? Last time you picked a fight, you wound up having to run away with your tail between your legs." His smirk widened, hints of white, sharp canines glinting dangerously. "Was a lot of fun."

The self-proclaimed 'Son of the Bat' puffed his chest out proudly, chin up. It really was a bit disturbing how much he looked like Mr. Wayne, but without any of his redeeming qualities. He didn't even think Wayne _had_ redeeming qualities until he met this dreg. "Insolent child, you had the advantage of a strength-enhancing suit!" he argued. "A suit which, incidentally, belongs to me."

"Technically, it still belongs to _me_." Bruce Wayne melted from the shadows, backstick in hand and craggy features hard. Right on schedule. "And until I say otherwise, _I_ get the final say on who wears it."

"Father!" Damien exclaimed, whirling around. "I've come to – "

Bruce lifted a wrinkled hand. "Save it. I already know of your 'credentials' – the answer is still no."

The younger man's face twisted in utter incomprehension. "But, Father, I am your _son_. I rejected my grandfather's cause to join yours! I've spent years training with Grayson, learning your ways! How is it that this...this..." Damien held an arm in his direction; it felt like an accusation of wrong-doing. Terry had certainly seen the pose enough at his trial. "This _street urchin_ has taken what was rightfully mine? I've earned the mantle of the Bat, I deserve it – it's my _birthright_."

Wayne shook his head. "If you really think that, then you'll _never_ understand." The old man turned away, waving his hand once as he ascended the stairwell. "Go home, Damien. Be whoever you want to be – as long as it isn't Batman."

Damien stood silently in his father's wake, head hanging and shoulders slumped. He appeared downright hurt. Terry almost felt sympathy for him – something like sympathy, anyway. He rubbed at the back of his neck as the awkward silence dragged on. "He's right, y'know. Batman isn't a birthright; it's a burden."

Damien Wayne turned upon him, glower cranked up full blast. "And what do you know?"

"I know helping people is more important than my taste in clothes," he said bluntly, rising to his feet. Screw the homework, it could wait – Damien showing up always frazzled Wayne's nerves. He reached the landing, finger poised on the lights as he gave the taller man one final, dismissive comment. "You want a status symbol? Get a Ferarri."

The Cave plunged into darkness.

**_

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A/N: This was for TheNewCatwoman. Stupid prompt. Stupid Damien. Stupid plot bunnies. ;


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